After the Storm Passes
by BlackBandit111
Summary: After the battle atop Big Ben, Basil is a little worse for wear. Dawson, being a doctor, takes care of him. No slash. Rated for description of wounds.


_Hey, viewers! I've loved this movie since I was little and finally rewatched it and decided that I'd write a fanfiction about it- why? Because I can! Anyways, I appreciate you reading this and I hope you enjoy it!_

_Rated for description of wounds._

_Disclaimer: Don't own it, will never own it... *sobs* WHY?!_

* * *

The light of the moon bathed the occupants of the sky in a soft embrace, the wind rippling through the improvised dirigible that held them and sending a chill up their spines. Basil of Baker Street pedaled furiously despite his exhaustion, determination powering him and seeping into his weary bones. Shouts of encouragement arose from Dawson and the Flavershams, forcing Basil to work harder; his muscles trembled and, despite the chill, his skin felt as though it was aflame in the places Ratigan had managed to scratch. Clenching his jaw, he kept his eyes firmly planted on Dawson and that aircraft.

Just a little...further…

Dawson's hand was outstretched...it was just there...barely three feet away…

Air rushed past him, colors flying by in burs and streaks- he was in open air, falling, falling-

And then his feet hit solid ground (or rather, a matchbox-made floor) and there were hands on his burning shoulders and clutching at his uninjured arm and holding him up and pulling him to safety. Olivia clung to his waist, short and skinny arms wrapping around him and linking behind his back. Basil didn't have the strength to pry her off at the moment.

"Are you alright, Basil?" Dawson asked, brows furrowed. Basil took a deep breath; it wheezed as it left his lips. He tried to ignore the insistent throbbing of his injuries, balling his fists.

"Perfectly all right, old fellow," he responded in what he hoped was a steady tone, wincing as his voice sounded thick even to his own ears.

Dawson's lips pursed. "None of that, Basil. But don't worry," he added, eyes flickering to Mr. Flaversham, who began preparing another balloon to deflate towards Baker Street, "we'll be back to Baker Street in no time, and we can get you to a clinic."

"Don't need a clinic, Dawson," Basil argued, but he was well aware of his knees trembling as he announced this. "All in a case's work, old chap."

Dawson's lips pressed together tighter his brows set low on his forehead. "I'm sure," he muttered, and Basil was simply too tired to comment on the blatant sarcasm used. His limbs felt as though weights had settled upon them and were relentlessly tormenting his screaming wounds and thoroughly abused muscles. His eyelids were fluttering despite his valiant attempts to keep them open; his vision swam with the slowly ceasing rain as it faded to meagre drizzles. Perhaps his vision would have swam anyway. He was having trouble thinking clearly; the fogginess of his mind matched the foggy London skies, making thought process lethargic and sentence forming sluggish.

Oh, it hurt to even _breathe_...It felt as though someone was sitting heavily on his chest...

Olivia had detached herself from his waist at some point or another (he couldn't care to remember when) and had gone to stand next to her father, who was faithfully leading their transportation through the cloudy English night.

He was so tired…

But he had solved it, and now Ratigan was gone. He felt something heavy settle in his chest. He wasn't sure if it was satisfaction or disappointment, or perhaps a little of both; satisfaction for another successful case and the end of his arch nemesis; disappointment the fact that now, he had nothing and no one to keep his mind so occupied and cluttered as Ratigan had.

Dawson's voice floated past his ears, and it was only his words that made Basil aware he had shut his eyes. "Sleep, Basil...We'll be home soon."

And although he would have liked to argue and claim that he was perfectly fine and needed nothing, that he could handle himself, he just simply didn't have the energy.

So he closed his eyes.

* * *

The world tilted sharply as he suddenly slammed back into his body, his aches and pains returning like lightning flashes in a stormy sky. He sucked in a breath, measuring his breathing for a few moments in order to calm his racing heart and control the waves of pain that rolled from his entire being. There was a gentle tapping on his cheek.

"Basil. Basil? Come, wake up. We've landed as close to Baker Street as we will get. Up you get now."

Basil dragged his lids up to discover the world was a blurry blend of shapes and colors. "D-Dawson?" He muttered, narrowing his eyes as the world continued its rocking. He could vaguely make out Dawson smiling.

"Yes, Basil. Come on, up you get, now. Here- that's it." Dawson's grip on his arm was gentle and feathery, like he was afraid that if he squeezed too hard, Basil might shatter. Basil swallowed, trying to ignore the wobbling in his legs as he took a tentative step off the matchbox. The world rushed up to meet him as he flew through the air, again falling, falling so fast that the earth was in front of his face-

And then Dawson's face swam in front of his, and he breathed a sigh. "Dawson…"

Dawson's eyebrows creased and his lips curved into a frown. "Come now, Basil; I need you to support some of your own weight. I understand you're tired; you can rest when we get back to the flat. Come on, now, there we are."

Basil reached deep into his core and summoned up some of his unconquerable courage, finding the strength to hoist himself (admittedly unsteadily) to his feet. The world gave a dangerous lurch, and Basil's stomach tossed warningly. He clamped his mouth shut, pursed his lips, and limped along, refusing Dawson's help. Damn his pride.

Dawson, thankfully, saw through this facade, grabbing Basil's uninjured arm and slinging it over his shoulders. "None of that," he murmured, bristling a little. "Don't you dare refuse this help."

Basil didn't think he could even if he wanted to.

They made two lefts and a right, unsurprisingly meeting no one on the streets. The Flavershams led the way, peering around corners and through fences on the look out for humans, but they crossed none. Basil considered calling Toby for his assistance, but the hound was, assumedly, already back at Baker Street; besides, it would just near destroy the last shreds of dignity he possessed, and he didn't think he could take it tonight. Ratigan had humiliated him enough this case.

Basil drew in a deep breath, wincing as it stretched the sharp gashes on his back and shoulders. Nearly there…

Stumbling, they made their way to the familiar hedges and the sturdy brick. Basil panted, ears low on his head and gaze to the ground. Just a little...more…

The warm light of the inside of the flat flooded the porch area in comforting light, Mrs. Judson's concerned face peering out into the street. As soon as her eyes found Basil's exhausted and hunched form, the door opened fully, Mrs. Judson rushing forward to take Basil's other side. He hissed through his teeth at the jolt to his arm but was otherwise silent. The two helpers guided the injured detective, sitting him down in his armchair.

Basil gave a little grunt as he was placed down, slamming his eyes shut against the sudden white light that flashed through his skull. Mrs. Judson returned (when had she left?) with a few cloths and a pan of water, dipping the edges of the towels into the water and gently patting his wounds. He hissed as the water made contact with his skin, leaving a searing, burning sensation, but Dawson had begun to do the same to his shoulders and neck, and he wasn't sure who to yell at first. He felt so very disoriented, like he was floating, almost…

He was distantly aware of someone stripping him of his overcoat and vest, leaving him in just his button up. He would have felt indignant or perhaps self conscious, but he couldn't bring himself to care about much. He was feeling suddenly warm and content, a fuzzy feeling settling deep in his chest…breathing hurt, though, but so did the rest of his body, as it had turned into one huge throb a while back…

Dawson's face blurred in front of him, and Basil blinked to bring his companion back into focus. It only managed to make things fade to black at the edges of his vision though, so instead he cleared his throat. "How are you doing, Basil?"

He blinked. His mind felt like it was moving so slow it was going backwards. "Quite fine," he fibbed, and by look on Dawson's face he didn't believe it, either.

"Just need to check for your ribs, my friend- you took quite a few falls during this case, from the toyshop to the tower. I wouldn't be surprised if you had broken a few."

He really just wanted to sleep, personally…

He idly realized that Dawson's paws were on his sides, gently kneading the area to find any injuries that happened to be life threatening (because he already had enough injuries, and they could all qualify as particularly serious…) He yelped as Dawson prodded an exceptionally tender spot, and Dawson's soft paws stilled where they were, and Basil's shirt was lifted. His view grew blurry for a moment before sharpening again, and he quickly wiped away the evidence of the tear that had escaped.

As if this whole thing wasn't already embarrassing…

Dawson had begun wrapping his torso at some point, and Basil's shirt had been completely taken off. When? When had that even happened? He couldn't recall…

He was so _tired_…

He found himself swaying slightly, being led by the shoulder towards the closed door to his room...He was seated on the bed; his shoes were removed...Under covers…His aching bones creaked as they finally, _finally_ relaxed into the mattress, muscles easing…

"Sleep, Basil."

And then the world was dark, and Basil slept.

* * *

He awoke to fire raging in his veins. His skin felt almost as though it was melting off his body, his fur clumped together in great clots due to blood. When he peered down at his torso, it had been wrapped, but the dressings were well soaked through excess blood that had oozed in the night.

He rubbed his eyes, scratching the back of his head. Slowly, he swung his feet off the bed and threw back the light covers, shivering at the cool air. (Which he knew from experience wasn't that cool in the house, so obviously he had a fever, going by the clamminess, the weakness, and the fire-feeling. Elementary.)

Taking a deep breath and pleased that it hurt slightly less to do so, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, but all in all remained standing quite well and, encouraged, he fetched his robe off the hook on the back of the door (no doubt put there by Dawson or Mrs. Judson, because he never put his robe in an obvious place). Slowly, he put his arms through the sleeves, careful to avoid brushing any tender places he injured (which was pretty much everywhere).

Suddenly, he doubled over, dry coughs rattling through his chest and forcing their way past his lips. He wondered idly if he'd had pneumonia, but figured Dawson would have taken him to hospital if that really had been the case, so a bad cold, then. Unsurprising, considering the sheets of rain that had been pounding against his back that night…

The door opened so abruptly that Basil nearly fell over from his surprise. In charged Dawson, face a mask of pure concern and concentration plastered across his face. Something akin to annoyance flashed behind his eyes and he exclaimed, "Basil! What in the world are you doing out of bed?!"

Basil raised an eyebrow at his companion. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting up. I've had a good night's rest, Dawson, and feel much better for it. No need to worry so much, dear fellow."

Dawson's eyebrows furrowed and something glinted in his eyes as he narrowed them. "Basil...how long do you believe you've been asleep, chap?"  
Basil's ears flattened against his head. "I- well- only a night, Dawson. Since this morning, actually, since I'm sure we came into Baker Street at quite a late time- probably scared Mrs. Judson so, I'll have to ask for her pardon later. Why?"

"Well, old chap, you've been- you've been out for nearly two days!"

Basil's eyes widened. "Two days?" He echoed, and Dawson nodded fervently.

"Yes! Why didn't you tell you didn't eat or sleep on a case? Dear God, mouse! Wait a moment-" He opened the door and called, "Mrs. Judson! He's awake! Would you bring in some tea and something light to eat, please?"

Basil rolled his eyes as Dawson pushed him back down, but truly it felt relieving to take pressure off his aching limbs. In the short span of time he had been standing, his wounds had reignited again. "I'm perfectly fine, old chap," he assured, but allowed Dawson to push him back against the pillows with little resistance, "no need to fuss."

Dawson stared at his, eyes wide. His lips curled and he suddenly looked incredibly angry as his eyebrows drew together and his hands were placed on his hips. "'No need to fuss'?" he echoed. "No need to fuss- Basil, you fell off of Big Ben with multiple lacerations in your arms, shoulders and back, not to mention horribly bruised ribs! If there was ever a need to fuss, it is now, my dear fellow!"

His brows furrowing, he diverted the topic. "Where is Ms. Flamhamer and her father?"

Dawson smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "A nearby inn, my friend; I'm sure they'll be very relieved to hear you're up and about. I'll send word to them as soon as possible."

So Dawson fussed and doted and hovered over Basil for the next two days with Olivia and Mr. Flaversham, which was actually perfectly fine with the detective; it had been a while since he had had an actual person to call friend, and Dawson was certainly something special. And he supposed that Mr. Flaversham was a nice enough fellow, and Olivia was...tolerable, for a child. (Obviously he wasn't hiding his actual fondness, or anything.)

Finally Dawson let him up and he was able to sit by the fire and smoke some of his pipe in peace, Dawson across from him reading the post. An exclamation of surprise pulled Basil from his brooding thoughts and he tore his gaze from the fire to his friend.

"What is it, chap?" He asked curiously, keen eyes having already noted the royal Mousedom seal on the envelope and the expensive lining of the paper itself.

"It's a summons from the Queen herself! She wants to royally and personally honor us for what we've done!" Dawson exclaimed, and his own excitement made Basil grin.

"My good Doctor," he said seriously, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, "I'm sure this will go down to be our greatest adventure yet!"

Dawson chuckled. "I'm sure," he agreed, but turned his eyes to the ceiling when there was an audible thump from 221B Baker Street Upstairs. "I wonder what they're doing," he asked aloud, and Basil chuckled, own bright green orbs staring past.

"Oh, I'm sure he's just solved another case," Basil said easily, and sure enough, the soft echo of a violin started up. "The Master only plays after cases have been solved."

Dawson chuckled. "I wonder if his case was any like ours?" He pondered, and Basil laughed outright, cringing slightly when it jarred his bruised ribs.

"Oh Dawson," Basil said, sticking his pipe back in his mouth thoughtfully, "don't be absurd!"

_fin_

* * *

_Yes, I referred to 'the Master' (who is depicted as Sherlock Holmes in the books) and yes, I was referring to the Moriarty case. :)_

_Well, that was my first fanfiction for this archive...how'd I do? Okay? Good? Bad? Leave me a comment on your thoughts!_


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